more welcoming room. The floral-pattern sofa with its variety of throw
pillows lent a lot of charm, and each of three plushly upholstered
armchairs was commodious enough to permit young guests to curl up
entirely on the seat with their legs tucked under them if they wished.
Celadon lamps with fringed silk shades cast a warm light that glimmered
in the bibelots on the end tables and in the glazes of Lladro porcelain
figurines in the mahogany breakfront.
Paige usually offered hot chocolate and cookies, or pretzels with a cold
glass of cola, and conversation was facilitated because the overall
effect was like being at Grandma’s house. At least it was how Grandma’s
house had been in the days when no grandma ever underwent plastic
surgery, had herself reconfigured by liposuction, divorced Grandpa to
Vegas with her boyfriend for the weekend.
Most clients, on their first visit, were astonished not to find the
collected works of Freud, a therapy couch, and the too-solemn atmosphere
of a psychiatrist’s office. Even when she reminded them that she was
not a psychiatrist, not a medical doctor at all, but a counselor with a
degree in psychology who saw “clients” rather than “patients,” people
with communication problems rather than neuroses or psychoses, they
remained bewildered for the first half an hour or so.
Eventually the room–and, she liked to think, her relaxed approach–won
them over.
Paige’s two o’clock appointment, the last of the day, was with Samantha
Acheson and her eight-year-old son, Sean. Samantha’s first husband,
Sean’s father, had died shortly after the boy’s fifth birthday.
Two and a half years later, Samantha remarried, and Sean’s behavioral
problems began virtually on the wedding day, an obvious result of his
misguided conviction that she had betrayed his dead father and might one
day betray him as well. For five months, Paige had met twice a week
with the boy, winning his trust, opening lines of communication, so they
could discuss the pain and fear and anger he was unable to talk about
with his mother. Today, Samantha was to participate for the first time,
which was an important step because progress was usually swift once the
child was ready to say to the parent what he had said to his counselor.
She sat in the armchair she reserved for herself and reached to the end
table for the reproduction-antique telephone, which was both a working
phone and an intercom to the reception lounge. She intended to ask
Millie, her secretary, to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson, but the
intercom buzzed before she lifted the receiver.
“Marty’s on line one, Paige.”
“Thank you, Millie.” She pressed line one. “Marty?”
He didn’t respond.
“Marty, are you there?” she asked, looking to see if she had punched
the correct button.
Line one was lit, but there was only silence on it.
“Marty?”
“I like the sound of your voice, Paige. So melodic.”
He sounded . . . odd.
Her heart began to knock against her. ribs, and she struggled to
suppress the fear that swelled in her. “What did the doctor say?”
“I like your picture.”
“My picture?” she said, baffled.
“I like your hair, your eyes.”
“Marty, I don’t–”
“You’re what I need.”
Her mouth had gone dry. “Is something wrong?”
Suddenly he spoke very fast, running sentences together, “I want to kiss
you, Paige, kiss your breasts, hold you against me, make love to you, I
will make you very happy, I want to be in you, it will be just like the
movies, bliss.”
“Marty, honey, what–” He hung up, cutting her off.
As surprised and confused as she was worried, Paige listened to the dial
tone before returning the handset to the cradle.
What the hell?
It was two o’clock, and she doubted that his appointment with Guthridge
had lasted an hour, therefore, he hadn’t phoned her from the doctor’s
office. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have had time to drive all the
way home, which meant he had called her enroute.
She lifted the handset and punched in the number of his car phone. He
answered on the second ring, and she said, “Marty, what the hell’s
wrong?”
“Paige?”
“What was that all about?”